Black Thoughts
by Jukava
Summary: Sometimes in the darkest hours of the night, I wake up abruptly. I don't know why I wake up, but at the same time, I know it all too well. Sirius reflects on his life and the twitsts and turns of it...


_A/N : Firstly, beta love : Huge thanks to the wonderful emmy50009 for her help with this fic._

 _As my other fic here on ffnet, this fics was written in French (my mother tongue) and translated by myself with the help of emmy50009 who had the tedious task to "defrenchise" it. French and English writing are very different and I really hope you'll enjoy this OS._

Sometimes in the darkest hours of the night, I wake up abruptly. Than, I slip out of bed quietly to avoid waking her and go down to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. Just to clear my mind. To do something else rather than lie awake in our bed. I don't really know why I wake up, but at the same time, I know too well. My insomnia, my worries. All about _them._

Hermione sleeps on, blissfully unaware of what's happening to me, of what thoughts she provokes in me. I never really share them with her. Deep down, I know I'm an egotistical jerk, to impose this life on her, cut off from the people she once loved, just to keep her close to me. I know that I'm the worst thing that could have happened to her. And yet, I can't bring myself to free her. _And maybe it's a little late for that, right?_

Her parents were the firsts. She told me that their relationship was strained since they came back from Australia. That they didn't trust her any more after she used her magic against them, and yet … I still think that they would have been able to mend their family, if she hadn't chosen me. I remember the expression on her father's face when she walked through the door, her hand in mine. The Grangers had been polite, but I hadn't been fooled. And when Hermione's mother had asked to talk privately to her in the kitchen, I knew immediately that this conversation would undoubtedly tip the scales. For a moment, I had hoped that her mother would be more approving of our relationship than her father, but when Hermione came out of the kitchen with a pained expression and watering eyes, I just sighed, took her hand and led her to the door.

Next were the Weasleys. Ron, of course. poor sod had had his chance with her, but still, he was the most bitter. As if he thought Hermione didn't have the right to rebuild her life with someone other than him. Well, I know that _I_ was the problem, not really the fact that she was in a relationship again.

I remember so well the words Ron had shouted. "But he's like an uncle to us, Hermione! It's disgusting!" She had told him that she had never considered me an uncle, and she certainly wouldn't, now that she was shagging me. Sometimes I think that my attitude had rubbed a little too much off on her, and that day was a perfect example of that.

The only other Weasley who dared to comment was Molly, the rest of them shocked but somewhat relieved to let the matriarch take care of the yelling. And she didn't disappoint. I faced Molly, her face red with anger, shouting with indignation, calling me a pervert, an irresponsible, depraved man who was defiling a fragile young woman, among several other things I prefer to forget.

I let her scream, Hermione's hand clutched in mine, and when she'd finally shut up, I just told Mrs. Weasley she was not allowed to meddle with our life. A few years ago, I would certainly have dueled her. Or would have at least send a petty hex at her. But I wasn't like that any more. War, betrayal, death, all those had changed me. My rebirth, life, and love, too.

It had been years since Hermione had spoken to her parents or the Weasleys. She had tried to reach out to them, but they had ignored her. So, she had just stopped. Resigned to the fact that her world is henceforth limited to me and the few people who accept our relationship. I had often wanted to ask her if she regretted choosing me over all of them, if she resented me for that. But I was too afraid of her answer.

I never cared what the Weasleys or her parents thought of me. I got so used to being hated for so long that I was indifferent. I spent twelve years locked in a prison for a crime I didn't commit, dragged through the mud like the worst Judas while I was one of the betrayed. The only person whose opinion is valuable to me - outside of _theirs_ of course - was Harry's.

Sometimes I wonder what I would have done if Harry hadn't finally accepted our relationship. Of course, like everyone else, he was surprised. Our age difference, our pasts, my imprisonment, her bossy nature, my flippancy, her seriousness and my recklessness, all seemed so opposite. No one had seen our story begin, no one thought we could be genuine, or thought that we had talked about our relationship before making it known.

Harry had the behaviour that his father would have had too, I was sure of it: he had sided with us. He didn't really understand what Hermione and I were doing together. But he was on our side. Maybe because the others were so much against us. Maybe because we were his family. I don't really care.

He had resisted the tensions it had caused with the Weasleys, compartmentalizing his life to be able to have a place for us and for them. He had tried to instigate a reconciliation, but to no avail. Ginny had ignored her mother's reproaches out of friendship for Hermione but the others Weasleys chose to stay away. Unattainable.

I had finished my glass of water a long time ago but my thoughts continued to wander. I couldn't help but think about this painful moments. Perhaps because I would have wanted more guests at our wedding. Only for her.

Hermione had sent out invitations to almost everyone she knew. But only Luna, Minerva, Neville, Seamus, Dean, some of Hermione's co-workers - not mine since they were all Muggles - and of course Harry and Ginny had come to the Ministry that day.

She had smiled and shrugged, as if to tell me that it didn't mattered. But I knew that even if she denied it fiercely, she would have wanted her parents to be there, because despite everything, they were _her_ parents.

I hear a little whimpering noise on the first floor that I would recognize among thousands and I immediately know what I have to do. I hasten to take the box of powdered milk, the bottle and the bottled water. As though I had done it all my life when it's only been two months - _two months already!_ – I prepare the mid-night bottle. I cast a spell to warm it up and go up to my daughter's room, hearing her first cries.

She is as impatient as I can be ... I know that means trouble ... She has her mother's big brown eyes and not enough hair to know if it will curl or not, but I already know that I would go through hell and back if she asked me to. She has held my heart in her hands since the moment I laid eyes on her.

As I lift her from the cradle, taking care to support her tiny head, I think that even though the path has been paved with suffering, abandonment, turned backs, and tears, the victory is only more beautiful to me. Because I have a home, a reason to live, a family.


End file.
